Cisne
by Luminescence1203
Summary: You can't spend all your days in a dark manor reading old texts; everyone needs a hobby. Goodness knows what will happen if Father finds out, though...


"Impossible," the man said, exasperated. His chair squeaked against the polished floors as he stood up. He was an intimidating presence – six feet of flowing, expertly tailored velvet and glittering jewels. His gray eyes flashed as he surveyed the two children. "I will see you again when I return."

"Of course," the girl replied. The boy simply nodded gravely. The man exhaled sharply, and swept from the room. Dust fluttered in his wake, illuminated by the lone beam of sunlight from the tiny window. The girl rubbed her aching eyes. She and the boy stood up together. Both their backs ached, and their heads were throbbing, but neither dared to complain.

"Come," the girl said. Her voice was barely more than a squeak. He held the door open for her, and she marched past him, the top of her head tickling his chin.

"Fool," the young Franzisca said. "You aren't holding it right."

"My apologies," Miles murmured. He adjusted his grip on her thin leg. He could tell that he'd been holding it too high, being taller than her, and that it hurt her. Not that she would ever admit it. She stretched down, gracefully, touching her hands to the leg that was planted on the floor. His hands were beginning to sweat, and they slipped on her brown tights. He kept glancing toward the door. Franzisca, her head almost brushing the floor, caught his gaze in the lone mirror in the room.

"You know, if we're caught, I will be the one punished," she said.

"I know," Miles told her. If it was her way of saying thank you, then so be it. Not that it was particularly reassuring – it was her that he feared for, not himself. He could only imagine what sort of punishment her father would think up.

"Alright. Let go," she said. He released his grip and stepped back. She brought her hands together as she straightened up, then reached her pale arms to the ceiling. The leg that he had been holding up rose and arched, the white-shoed foot perfectly pointed. She froze then, a white swan in the dusty darkness. They were using a room where they were least likely to get caught – some old storage closet, albeit a huge one, that Manfred had long since abandoned. They had dragged one mirror into the room, so that Franzisca could see herself as she danced. They had closed the windows, although they were five stories up – with von Karma, you could never be too careful. After all, if he caught his prodigy daughter doing something as silly as _ballet_…Miles shuddered to think of it.

With the windows shut, there only light source was a small oil lamp – electricity would be too conspicuous in the von Karma household. By it's light, Franzisca's hair was tinged with gold, as it had been once. Miles had not met her then, but he had seen photos – the child had been born with hair that was pale gold, almost white. In time, it had become tinged with blue, and was now a pale shade of aqua. Nobody knew what had caused the change; although, as once servant had joked, they were von Karmas – nobles, bluebloods. That servant had not come back to work the next day, and so the topic of Franzisca's hair was avoided altogether.

The girl glanced at herself in the mirror, at the arch of her back and leg, and her knees folded. The instep of her foot hit the floor with a thud as she collapsed, but she did not wince.

"I can't do it," she whispered. "I-I'm not perfect. I never will be." Miles, now crouched beside her, got the feeling that they were not talking about ballet anymore. "I'm not as good as my father. I'm not as good as you. I can't even do a stupid _dance_." She slammed her fist into the layer of dust on the floor. She was shaking, shaking so hard that she did not even attempt to push Miles away as he wrapped an arm around her. Miles grasped her small, pointed chin with one hand and turned her to face the mirror. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Look," he said.

"I don't want to," she snapped. He sighed then, deeply. "What are you afraid of?" She hissed, annoyed, and opened her eyes a slit. Miles ran a hand over her pale blue hair, the birthmark on her cheek, her puffy sleeve.

"Those boys at your school…they are fools. They are children. If they say you are stupid, it is because they are too foolish to know talent when they see it. If they call you old-fashioned, it is because they have mud running in their veins. You are a von Karma." He grasped her beneath the arms, lifting her to her feet so she could see herself in the mirror. She wore a lacey white dress that looked like it was designed fifty years ago, albeit slightly shorter than what would have been acceptable then; her usual brown tights; and simple white ballet slippers.

"Look at you, Mei. You are an angel." Her lips tightened, and she glared at Miles.

"I thought I told you not to call me that." She hated it when he flattered her – he was much too good at it.

"Would you prefer Franny?" He asked, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. She shoved him, lightly, then lifted her chin so she could pretend she was looking down her nose at him.

"Fine. Call me what you wish, if it amuses you so…brüderlein." Miles managed a small laugh at that. Little brother, when he was years older than her.

"Of course. Brüderlein. …Together, we will wipe out all the evil, all the crime in this world. No defense attorney will be able to stand against either of us, and we will be perfect. You will be as great as your father, and greater still."

"And I-I will defeat you, Miles Edgeworth. One day, you will fall, and I will rise above you. I…am a true von Karma." Her voice was shaking now, as though she had practiced in front of the mirror, but could not find the strength to perform her speech now. Turning away from him, she pulled off her ballet slippers and pulled on the hard, black shoes that stood by the wall. She stood there, contemplating, then bent down and chucked one of the slippers at him. He caught it, but Franzisca didn't glance back. Opening the door, she click-clacked down the parquet corridor.

"Focus, Miles Edgeworth!" Manfred von Karma's deep, booming voice snapped Miles out of his reverie. He had been remembering the events of that afternoon. He bent down to his paper, line after line of inky words trailing after the movements of his pen. He glanced at the book beside him, eyes straining as he read the tiny print. He wondered idly if it was possible to break glass with an extremely deep voice – he had seen opera singers do it many a time by shrieking, and thought that maybe his mentor's voice would have the same effect. Miles glanced at Franzisca beside him. She was on page 102, while he was on 105.

_You will be great,_ he thought. _Someday, you will be great, and beautiful, and a better prosecutor than your father ever was._ He shook his head, not knowing why the thought had come to him, and turned back to his work.


End file.
